In the tiny
bedroom, the mustiness of damp grownup coats and gloves mingled with the scent
of roast turkey and pies.
Cousins and
second cousins were hunkered down on the floor, by the heating vent, shushing
each other.
None of them
could remember how it had happened, only that now this was a Thanksgiving
ritual here at Aunt Nora’s house.
Because this
was where they could hear the adults talking around the big table set up in the
basement, and it was a delicious thrill to know they were spying on them.
They also
learned how damn boring adults are.
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